Fintan’s sandals slapped on the marble as he admired the columns of the completed Parthenon. He didn’t think it was meant to be a reconstruction of the original. For one thing, it was bigger. Each column was almost thirty feet in diameter. The space between them was at least a hundred feet, and thousands of parishioners joined a throng to worship at the inset statues of Zeus.

  There were no other gods or their works inscribed on the columns, only Zeus in a hundred poses. The statuary had another commonality. Regardless of the pose, Zeus’s eyes always looked inward at the vacant throne in the center of the Parthenon.

  As outsiders, Fintan and RuTing had a lot of questions, but after a few concerned looks, a little running, and some expert stealth, they returned to Zeusopolis as worshippers.

  A few questions were answered before they disguised themselves in the crowd.

  When Fintan asked where Zeus was, they laughed and said he was in the world of the living.

  He followed up that question with a few more. How long ago did Zeus leave? How did he get to the world of the living? His questions, along with his clothing, marked him as an outsider almost immediately.

  When they raised a call for the Archers, he disappeared. He wasn’t as quick with his illusion as RuTing, but he managed. She was all but imperceptible, and his illusion fell apart with close observation. However when he combined illusion with his Skill, he could Step away anytime he wanted.

  That was a tremendous improvement over what he could do before.

  Their escape was enough that the Archers were circulating pictures of the two of them. Apparently, displays of Skill or uncommon manifestations were illegal. They separated briefly to investigate and maintain their disguise. The clothing helped, but they couldn't change their faces. Creating an illusion of a new face was almost as difficult as an entire seeming, and it didn’t move correctly.

  The Parthenon was the largest single structure, raised on a veritable mountain. He walked down hundreds of marble steps, regretting his climb to the religious monument. Except for the thrown and people, it was empty. He suspected the climb was part of a pilgrimage. It was away from the river where he would meet with RuTing after she investigated the market.

  The city gates were defended but open, and wagons and foot traffic entered each day by the hundreds.

  Since the entrants were jovial Fintan had been less wary than RuTing.

  Now that they were wanted by the Archers, he kept a low profile.

  The river was across the city. He walked past the iron-gated mansions, taking care not to get trampled by the chariots or the burly palanquin bearers that announced the Helloi. The sacred priests of Zeus were worshipped by the bystanders, and Fintan kneeled with the others. Their servants didn’t let their feet touch the ground. As near as Fintan could tell, the Helloi walked in life so they didn’t have to in the afterlife.

  Everyone in the city was beautiful by Union standards, but amidst so much health and youth, eventually, Fintan began to spot the differences, and the most luscious and strong rode beside the Helloi. They carried scented oils they rubbed into the Hellos feet and trimmed long toenails that curled around the foot almost like a hoof.

  By the time Fintan arrived at the river he had an idea about the Hellos of Zeus. They were all men, although the citizens of Zeusopolis whispered of female priests. Fintan suspected they were kept behind closed doors. The servants of the Hellos were honored. They were not slaves, and they were almost as pampered as the priests. Much like in the Union, the average citizen complained about small things that were in the realm of their political power. The strange democracy meant they had the right to vote for their civil servants, but everyone bowed before the power of the theocracy, so it didn’t matter.

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  Since Fintan’s death, he had a different perspective on the Union—a certain future that was once only bright lights was shadowed by bitterness. The Union and Dill hadn’t kept him safe. So far as he could tell, he died from common criminals. He didn’t know what they wanted, and he thought murder was mythical Zeus.

  As he approached the river boardwalk, mythology assaulted him again. There was a line at the river, and he morosely understood that, eventually, the water subsumed.

  The crowds around the river were not a shock. They were divided into an organized procession where the destitute ambled into the water, released one at a time like lambs through a turnstile. They went into the water and did not emerge. Boats of various types were docked where the wealthy could depart into the next life with style, some with servant rowers.

  A winged shape flew feet above the water, white like an extinct seagull but misshapen. The wingspan was impossibly large, thirty feet across, and the equine body was not designed for aerodynamic flight, but somehow, on top of the current, it ascended as if gathering speed.

  “The Pegasus approaches!” someone cried. For a second, Fintan blinked, and when he looked back, everyone else was prostrate around him, so he fell kneeling and pressed his face into the cobblestone.

  Above him, the Pegasus turned away from the river and darted toward the mansions. The rider on its back was a dark speck on an otherwise glistening white body covered in long feathers. Before leaving, a tremendous horse clod dropped across the gathered worshippers. Who jumped on the pile of dung as if it was gold.

  Fintan hadn’t defecated since he came to the afterlife. He supposed he could if he wanted to, but there was no need. Eating restored his energy, but like everything in the afterlife, it was made of mist, and digestion, in the strictest sense, wasn’t necessary.

  He rose, finding RuTing at his side. Like him, she’d shed her exosuit in favor of local garb. She wore a loose white robe and a woven belt.

  “Did you find anything in the Parthenon?” she asked.

  “No maps,” Fintan said. “The inscriptions on the statues were all about Zeus and his many victories, but they weren’t dated. Did you find anything?”

  “Yes, but it was what I didn’t find that concerns me,” RuTing said. “They don’t have a library, but I found a book for sale. The pages were thin metal sheets, and the inscription was in gold, handwritten.”

  “The cost must have been phenomenal,” Fintan guessed. He could manifest a few gilders a day, but he was weaker after each effort, and a gilder had less than a tenth of an ounce of gold. “What was in it?” He suspected her response.

  “I couldn’t see it. It was in a protected display behind glass and guarded.”

  “Could you read the words?”

  She nodded. That confirmed his suspicions. RuTing’s native language was Eastern, and she thought and spoke in that language. He didn’t know Eastern, he spoke in Western. When she drew something in the dirt, he read the words without difficulty.

  A translation matrix of this caliber was almost enough for him to believe he was in heaven.

  “Make way for the prisoners,” an Archer yelled, and Fintan resisted cringing. RuTing told him the best way to avoid being captured was to stop looking like a target.

  They moved aside with the rest of the crowd on the docks while the archer dressed in skin-tight clothing with a pointy helmet escorted a group of prisoners.

  There were only two Archers, one fore and one aft, but the prisoners didn’t run or try to hide in the crowd. They walked to the docks like pariahs with heads held high. Someone spit on the ground in front of them, and an Archer let loose an arrow with his short bow. A brief scream indicated someone was hit, but it was probably not fatal and otherwise ignored as the prisoners lined up on the dock.

  Unlike the turnstile, they were to be released directly into the water.

  “For conduct unbecoming a citizen of Zeusopolis, you are sentenced to the next life,” an Archer intoned. He looked bored.

  The noon bell tolled, and prisoners leapt into the water voluntarily. Fintan wasn’t used to watching people die, even after the first time. The crowd mostly ignored the prisoners, but he watched as they kicked in the river. The water was deep, but a few managed to kick off the bottom and emerge. They tried to swim toward the shallows, but after a few feet, they gave up and sank.

  The water was crystal clear, and the current carried them away, still gasping below the surface.

  How long would it take for them to give up manifesting air in their lungs? Would they survive after that? Did he really need air to breathe?

  Fintan didn’t know the answers.

  “If they have a map or a book of the history of the afterlife, it will be in a mansion.”

  He didn’t need to say what he meant. They would have to steal it. They were already criminals just for existing in Zeusopolis. He didn’t owe them anything. By his account, this government was far worse than the Union. The people were conditioned to willingly kill themselves.

  He couldn't approve of a government that rewarded the elites and enslaved the public when there was plenty for all. The afterlife didn’t have the privation of life. This was just the continuation of an ideal for the sake of perpetuating power.

  RuTing nodded in agreement.

  “I don’t think I need to show you the slave quarters,” she said.

  She’d already arrived at the same conclusion.